He pointed to a shallow hill rising to the east. “Up there.”
Richard let the Rag Man into the backseat of my car, which annoyed me. I don’t like someone I don’t know hanging out that close behind me. He rode leaning right up between us, pointing the way. Good thing I like a lot of strong smells.
As we drove toward the ridge, heading north, we passed through that surge of energy again. “Wow!” the Rag Man said, like he’d hit a blast of cold water on a hot day. Richard leaned back hard in his seat.
“What was that?” I asked the Rag Man.
“Comes from the church back over there. I don’t know how they do it. They got them all around.”
“The church?” Richard said. “What church?” He turned around to the Rag Man, his voice sharp. I looked at him, and he subsided.
“I don’t know,” the Rag Man said. “You know, the one with the tower.”
“It may be the parish boundaries,” Richard told me. “They used to ward the parish against evil, back in the day. I didn’t know anyone was still doing that.” I heard the suggestion in his voice.
“We’ll go talk to them,” I said.
We headed uphill on a road that wound up to a reservoir through a county park. I stopped when we got to a tollgate.
“No, no, not that way,” the Rag Man said. “Turn right, up there.”
Further up the hill on the right we came to another gate. As we drove up to it, the Rag Man was unrolling the backseat window on my side. A big, heavy-set guy in sunglasses came out of the booth, but before he could speak, the Rag Man leaned out his window.
“Hey, man, it’s just me, I want to show these guys something.” And darned if the big guy didn’t wave us through.
There was a tingling of energy up there on the hill. The grass was green and manicured, and everywhere, in neatly marked spaces, divided by perfect green lawns, were parked big, handsome, clean, new RVs. “Someone’s been doing a working,” I said, tasting the air.
“Oh, yeah,” the Rag Man said. “They’ve been up here for months, these guys. Heilige Arbeiters, they call themselves. The Holy Workers. There’s been a gathering every night.”
We passed a few heavy-set, slow-moving men and women grouped beside barbecues or stretched out in deck chairs. They were dressed like people on vacation from somewhere else. They looked up when we drove by, but then lost interest when the Rag Man waved and called out a greeting. Some of them waved back. A few of them smiled.
We got out on the far side of the park and stood on the verge where the hill dropped away, and we could see across the great bowl that held greater Los Angeles. And if the air weren’t so hazy, we could have seen all the way to the ocean.
“There,” the Rag Man said. “I saw it in my dreams. I saw it in the fire. I saw it in my goddamn oatmeal, for God’s sake. This hill. This view. So finally I found this place, and this is what I saw.” He pointed down to the foot of the hill. “Waves crashing right down there. And out there…” His arm swept across the greater Los Angeles basin. “The ocean. No city. Nothing left. The bottom of this hill—that’s going to be her bite mark.”
Richard and I took in the view. That was going to be a lot of missing city. That Worm had one enormous bite.
“You saw it more than once?” Richard asked.
“Over and over. I came up here, I recognized the view. Check it out, man. From here, down that way, all along that ridge down to Diamond Bar and the Chino Hills, this is going to be the new coast line.” He held up his hands. “Why do you think I stayed out here, hanging out in old Pomona? Come on!”
I looked across at the farther ridgeline and realized, “There’ve been workings up there as well.”
“Oh, yeah,” the Rag Man said. “The Holy Workers here, the Air Dragons up along there, and Eddie Mack’s tai chi group down that way. All along the high points, they’re all doing their thing.”
“Can they deflect her?” Richard
Richard let the Rag Man into the backseat of my car, which annoyed me. I don’t like someone I don’t know hanging out that close behind me. He rode leaning right up between us, pointing the way. Good thing I like a lot of strong smells.
As we drove toward the ridge, heading north, we passed through that surge of energy again. “Wow!” the Rag Man said, like he’d hit a blast of cold water on a hot day. Richard leaned back hard in his seat.
“What was that?” I asked the Rag Man.
“Comes from the church back over there. I don’t know how they do it. They got them all around.”
“The church?” Richard said. “What church?” He turned around to the Rag Man, his voice sharp. I looked at him, and he subsided.
“I don’t know,” the Rag Man said. “You know, the one with the tower.”
“It may be the parish boundaries,” Richard told me. “They used to ward the parish against evil, back in the day. I didn’t know anyone was still doing that.” I heard the suggestion in his voice.
“We’ll go talk to them,” I said.
We headed uphill on a road that wound up to a reservoir through a county park. I stopped when we got to a tollgate.
“No, no, not that way,” the Rag Man said. “Turn right, up there.”
Further up the hill on the right we came to another gate. As we drove up to it, the Rag Man was unrolling the backseat window on my side. A big, heavy-set guy in sunglasses came out of the booth, but before he could speak, the Rag Man leaned out his window.
“Hey, man, it’s just me, I want to show these guys something.” And darned if the big guy didn’t wave us through.
There was a tingling of energy up there on the hill. The grass was green and manicured, and everywhere, in neatly marked spaces, divided by perfect green lawns, were parked big, handsome, clean, new RVs. “Someone’s been doing a working,” I said, tasting the air.
“Oh, yeah,” the Rag Man said. “They’ve been up here for months, these guys. Heilige Arbeiters, they call themselves. The Holy Workers. There’s been a gathering every night.”
We passed a few heavy-set, slow-moving men and women grouped beside barbecues or stretched out in deck chairs. They were dressed like people on vacation from somewhere else. They looked up when we drove by, but then lost interest when the Rag Man waved and called out a greeting. Some of them waved back. A few of them smiled.
We got out on the far side of the park and stood on the verge where the hill dropped away, and we could see across the great bowl that held greater Los Angeles. And if the air weren’t so hazy, we could have seen all the way to the ocean.
“There,” the Rag Man said. “I saw it in my dreams. I saw it in the fire. I saw it in my goddamn oatmeal, for God’s sake. This hill. This view. So finally I found this place, and this is what I saw.” He pointed down to the foot of the hill. “Waves crashing right down there. And out there…” His arm swept across the greater Los Angeles basin. “The ocean. No city. Nothing left. The bottom of this hill—that’s going to be her bite mark.”
Richard and I took in the view. That was going to be a lot of missing city. That Worm had one enormous bite.
“You saw it more than once?” Richard asked.
“Over and over. I came up here, I recognized the view. Check it out, man. From here, down that way, all along that ridge down to Diamond Bar and the Chino Hills, this is going to be the new coast line.” He held up his hands. “Why do you think I stayed out here, hanging out in old Pomona? Come on!”
I looked across at the farther ridgeline and realized, “There’ve been workings up there as well.”
“Oh, yeah,” the Rag Man said. “The Holy Workers here, the Air Dragons up along there, and Eddie Mack’s tai chi group down that way. All along the high points, they’re all doing their thing.”
“Can they deflect her?” Richard
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